“Dad, where are we going?” I asked. Dad was silent. I was riding shotgun and Mikey was in the backseat pouting because I got to sit up front. We kept driving further and further away from civilization and after an hour or so we turned onto a dirt road and eventually came upon some heavily wooded swampland.
“Dad, what are we doing here?” I asked. This time he answered.
“Dad lost a piece off his truck and we need to find it.” He often referred to himself in the third person when talking to Mikey and me. Dad parked the truck and told us to get out and start looking for a shiny piece of metal. He pointed in front of us and said, “Start looking over there.” I felt uneasy and as I turned around to look at him I saw him reaching under the seat. He pulled out a handgun and my heart pounded.
“Dad, what are you doing with that gun?” I said, my voice shaking. That was the first time I had ever laid eyes on a gun and I was terrified. I felt the complete opposite of safe.
“In case there are snakes,” he responded casually. Then Mikey chimed in.
“God, Sparrow, leave Dad alone. Quit being such a baby!” I knew he was teasing but I couldn’t focus on his words. I was already processing the situation in my head at lightning speed, trying to figure out if we were in fact in danger and how to protect my mouthy little turd of a brother. I stood there for a moment and pretended to be looking for the car part. It had already dawned on me that where Dad had ordered us to go was way too wooded for any car to drive through. There was no way he could have lost a car part there. That major detail went right over Mikey’s head. I watched Dad out of the corner of my eye and saw him looking out onto the water. He looked sad, in a daze. I hadn’t seen that look before and it scared me. He looked deranged.
A water moccasin glided across the water. Dad raised his gun to shoot it but I begged him not to. He put the gun back to his side and still looked gone. Just then I heard a voice. It was loud but it came from inside me somehow. It said, “You are in danger! Go to the car!” I didn’t waste a second at that point. I figured if I went back to the car I would distract Dad and perhaps get him out of his trance. He probably wouldn’t shoot us in his beautiful, super-clean Ford Bronco, anyway.
“Run!” I screamed to Mikey who was laughing at me because he thought I was nuts to be scared of Dad. He didn’t remember his own abduction, when Dad picked him up from the neighbor’s house before Mom had arrived. From what I was told there was no violence involved and Mikey was only a year old.
I couldn’t save Mikey but I was determined to save myself. Dad screwed my life up royally once and I wasn’t going to let him finish me off.
I had never run so fast in all my life. As soon as I got to the car I opened the driver’s side door and hurled myself in. I locked both doors and tried to catch my breath. My darting to the truck definitely got Dad out of his trance. He and Mikey walked over and Dad beat on the driver side window.
“Get out of there, right now!” he yelled.
“No way!” I felt the slightest bit of reprieve inside the truck and I was staying put. For whatever reason Dad had left the keys inside. Thank God.
After ten to fifteen minutes of Dad vacillating between yelling and cajoling I realized I would have to unlock the car. The sun was setting and we couldn’t stay out there in swampland forever. There were no houses or anything nearby and we were on a dirt road. I got the sense I wasn’t in imminent danger because Dad no longer had that dazed look, so I unlocked the driver side door after making dad promise we would go straight home and that he would put the gun back under the seat of the car.
Much to my surprise, he did just that. Mikey teased me about it for several minutes but I was really good at tuning him out. It was a silent ride home. No one mentioned the car part. No one had even looked for it. Certainly not Dad. He was clearly lying. What were we doing out there? It seemed inconceivable that Dad had kidnapped us once, but he had. But to kill his own children? Could he possibly be capable of it?
Chapter 8
In the second grade I had a teacher named Mrs. Hatch. She was tall and lanky and looked twenty years older than she was. Looking back now I think she was a smoker with all those wrinkles and that deep, gravelly voice. I would bet the farm.
Mrs. Hatch didn’t like me for several reasons. For one thing, I refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance. It didn’t feel right to me. Not to mention my new dad enlisted to serve his country and came back beaten up and vocal about what he thought of our government. Boycotting the Pledge made me feel like I was supporting him in my way. It was no secret the war had ruined my dad and my family. I had nothing to pledge.
Mrs. Hatch also thought I was ridiculous because of what happened one day when Daddy Frank came to pick me up from school.
“Get your stuff, Sparrow, we are going to get Happy Meals and then we’re going to the toy store.”
Did I just hear that correctly? I sprinted to the coat closet to collect my things when Mrs. Hatch said,
“You can’t go, you have Brownies tonight.”
“I quit Brownies” I replied, but Frank decided I should honor my commitment.
“Oh, I forgot about Brownies. Guess we’ll have to go some other time, Sparrow.” And with that he turned to leave. I was devastated. Not only was I going to miss out on junk food and toys but I was worried they would take the other kids and I’d be left out. It’s not like we went to the toy store regularly by any means.
“No!” I shrieked as I hurled myself onto the ground and firmly wrapped my arms around Frank’s legs. He tried to shake me off but only managed to break one leg free. I had a death grip on the other.
“Please!” I cried. I knew everyone was looking at me but I didn’t care. Quiet little Sparrow had come undone. Frank might have been an alcoholic (thank God he kicked the heroin) but in some ways he was a good dad. He pried me off of his leg and managed to escape. Frank never gave into my princess moments. He always gently held me accountable.
A few months after second grade began, I noticed someone was stealing my lunch. Just the snacks at first, but later the whole lunch. I had this white, faux patent leather Holly Hobbie lunch box that I adored. I kept it in the coat closet with the other kids’ lunchboxes. Every day I noticed something missing. I could see why someone would want to steal my lunch as I had the lunch of champions: Sno balls, Cheese Curls, Hostess Cup Cakes, Ring Dings, Devil Dogs…you get the picture. Mom wanted us kids to really enjoy our lunch. Either that or it was easy to get our snacks at the local convenience store along with her Virginia Slims.
At first I had no idea who was taking my prepackaged goodies until I noticed Susie-Lynn munching on what I had in my lovely lunchbox that day. She even offered to share with me when she caught me staring at her devouring a Devil Dog that was meant to be in my belly. I was onto her, but now I had to prove it. The next day I decided to keep my eyes peeled to see if I could catch that sneaky lunch thief. A few minutes before our snack time Susie-Lynn said she had to use the bathroom and left the classroom. I waited and waited and sure enough she stopped in the coat closet on the way back. I quietly got up to see what she was up to and I caught her red-handed. There she was with my lunchbox wide open stealing my precious junk food.
“You’re stealing my lunch!” I yelled and I stuck my arm out and pointed to her like you see people do on television when they are accusing someone of murder. Mrs. Hatch came running in and yelled at both of us.
“What’s going on in here?”
“Susie-Lynn is stealing my lunch.” Poor little Susie-Q was caught off guard, still sitting there with my open lunch box. She must not have had any siblings or she would have had the good sense to close the box quickly and make up a story that blamed me. Mrs. Hatch ignored Susie and told me to put my lunchbox under her desk from now on. I was pissed. How come Susie-Lynn wasn’t getting into trouble? I had to stand in the corner for an hour once for whispering to someone to borrow a pencil and this lunch thief gets off scot free? I wasn’t having it. Not to mention I would
look like the teacher’s pet with my lunchbox under her desk. Could I be any more of an outsider?
This was one I couldn’t let go. Day after day I plotted and schemed about how I was going to make her pay for what she did. Maybe no one ever told this girl you don’t steal food from a scrappy, poor kid. Not without consequences, anyway.
So I waited. I waited about two months, which is like ten years to a seven year old. I had my plan for a while; I just needed the right situation to carry it out. Magically it all came together. We were outside at recess playing in the snow. It was cold and dreary and miserable. Susie-Lynn looked like a happy little piglet, though, off by herself making snow angels. I decided I was gonna get that little snow pig. I convinced a classmate named Haley to help me since I had learned to be quite persuasive when I needed to be. We both charged over to Susie at full force and tackled her, shoving handfuls of snow down her snug-fitting snowsuit. It wasn’t easy because she really filled that thing out but we kept going. She screamed but I grabbed the back of her head and shoved her face in the snow. It’s amazing how well snow muffles sound. This probably went on for about two minutes; the happiest two minutes of my second grade year. We stopped when we couldn’t get any more snow in. Susie’s face had turned beet red and the tears streaming down her face became little icicles. She had snot strings coming out of both nostrils that rested on her puffy upper lip. I was satisfied. “That’s for stealing my lunch,” was all I said as I walked away, feeling like Wonder Woman in a snowsuit.
Naturally, Susie-Lynn told the teacher and I got into trouble. Susie’s mom had to come to school to bring her a change of clothes, which made me even happier. My Operation Make Susie Pay was a success. I had to spend the rest of the day in the corner which was perfect since no one could see me grinning from ear to ear. People in my life always seemed to get away with hurting me: my dad, mom, step-dad. No one was accountable for their actions until now. Even though Mrs. Hatch yelled at me for eons and was disappointed in me I knew deep down I had stood up for myself. The only way I knew how.
* * *
I was excited to start third grade because it was in a different school called the New Suncook School. It was at least twenty miles outside town, which meant I had to get up super early to get there on time. I was really hoping for a nicer teacher than Mrs. Hatch and I fully thought I deserved one too. Putting up with her for a whole year seemed like eternity and I was ready for a fresh new face. Unfortunately the universe had other plans.
Blanche Claybourn was another crusty old teacher who should have retired years before I encountered her. I’m not sure why she would have wanted to become a teacher in the first place. She had a perma-scowl which would definitely meet the criteria for today’s definition of a resting bitch face. She had short, blonde hair that was parted way over to the side which left her with a feathered comb-over, much like something you’d see on a late 1960s housewife, or a member of Herman’s Hermits. Plus, it was nearly the eighties now and someone should have told her. Mrs. Claybourn’s teacher sweaters definitely added to the dated look, but what was most unnerving about her was that her head leaned to the left way too much and she consistently spittled every time she talked. I learned to take a few steps back when she was talking to me, especially when she was angry.
Mrs. Claybourn had plenty of reasons not to like me. For one thing I knew she could tell I was one of “those” kids; the kids whose clothes didn’t match, whose hair was messy, and who had permanent dirt rings around their necks. I wish I was exaggerating about that last one but once when I was kicking and screaming because I didn’t want to get into the bath tub Frank lifted me up to the bathroom mirror and showed me the dirt ring around my neck.
“Sparrow, you have to take a tub, you’re filthy,” he told me. I’m not sure why we always called it “taking a tub” when everyone else said bath but in any event I wanted no part of either. I hated getting my hair wet and then getting water in my ears and soap in my eyes. Mom should have nicknamed me “Kitty” not “Puppy” but I guess she didn’t know at the time I was part feline.
On top of having a dirt ring, Mrs. Claybourn probably hated me for stinking up her class. More than once she asked me if I smoked. I told her my parents did and she said she could tell because I reeked of cigarettes. I couldn’t smell it because I was so used to it but my teacher had an aversion to smoke which didn’t help my cause. She had no choice but to put me in her advanced reading and math groups because of my intellect, but I could tell she wasn’t happy about it.
I was definitely that kid whose dog ate her homework. Mom never once asked if I had any after school, so I rarely remembered to do it. Mrs. Claybourn never missed an opportunity to call me out in front of the class for not having it. She would sigh those deep, heavy sighs that let me know I was the most annoying person in her life. Why was I such an energy drain for her? I couldn’t figure it out. Didn’t she know what my life was like? Didn’t she know that I already felt worthless? I couldn’t decide which was worse, being totally ignored at home or being the bane of someone’s existence at school. Over time I figured out it was the latter. Actually, it became a no-brainer.
Patsy Harrington was a dark-haired girl a few years older than me who went to my school. She lived pretty close by and I remember the school bus picking her up shortly after it came down our street. She was tall and thin with stringy hair and I remember thinking she had a horse face, as it was long and skinny too. I didn’t pay much attention to her until she began to pick on me. Being several years younger I was an easy target, especially since I was tiny and rumpled. More like a perfect target.
She would start by making fun of my clothes and hair, and when I tried to ignore her she ramped it up. This didn’t go on long because even though she was older and I was intimidated I was still pretty scrappy and I knew I had to stick up for myself. So one day as she was starting in on me I noticed a couple of Letter People books on the seat next to her. These were books I had used in the first grade to help with reading, even though I already knew how. Each book was a different letter and they were very rudimentary. What’s a fifth grader doing with Letter People books? I wondered. Then it hit me. She couldn’t read.
“Well at least I know how to read,” I said. Take that you brat! I thought, feeling self-righteous. I could have called her horse-face or something worse but it wasn’t my style. I’m not saying I was perfect because the day before I had gotten into trouble for zipping Mikey up in a suitcase and trying to throw him down the stairs into the basement, but he was my brother and it didn’t count. I never picked on kids at school. I was shy, but always friendly and nice—unless someone crossed a line. I never started it, but sometimes I finished it, which is how I felt when I delivered the reading zinger. Patsy told me to shut up but I could see she was visibly disturbed which let me know I won that round. Good for me.
Not long after class began Mrs. Claybourn got called into the hall. When she came back she asked me to step outside. She had that intense scowl on her face and I felt my heart pounding but I couldn’t think of anything I had done so I was bewildered. In the hall she bent over, grabbed my tiny shoulders and started shaking me, scream-spitting in my face.
“How dare you make fun of someone who can’t read!” she hollered. She was about an inch away from my face and not only was I getting quite a spit bath but my hair started blowing back as well. “Patsy’s working hard on her reading and just because you’re advanced it doesn’t give you any right to pick on her!” I had never seen her quite this angry as her face was turning red and her eyes were wild with fury.
“She picked on me first…”
“I don’t care! You never pick on someone’s learning disability! Do you hear me?” She was still violently shaking me at this point and I felt my head lolling like a rag doll. Everything got fuzzy and I saw stars. When she finally stopped she abruptly turned and marched back into the classroom, slamming the door behind her. I don’t recall how I made it back to my desk because Mrs. Clay
bourn had shaken me out of my own body, but somehow I was able to use my legs to walk back into the classroom and take my seat.
Getting through that day was brutal. The other kids had overheard Mrs. Claybourn screaming at me and at recess they wanted to know what I had done. I tried to explain my side. Some kids understood and some didn’t but no one cared all that much. It would just be something that had to blow over. Or so I thought.
When I got home from school Mom said the teacher had called and explained how I was bullying a girl at school and that I needed to make amends. I explained to her what happened but Mrs. Claybourn had gotten to her first and she wasn’t buying my story.
“Your teacher thinks you two should spend some time together after school,” Mom said as she lit a cigarette. “It’ll be good for you.”
“Mom, she’s awful to me. I’m not hanging out with her!”
“Well, her dad’s on his way over here to pick you up. You need to apologize. I’ve always taught you kids to root for the underdog. Sounds like you need some help with that lesson.”
I didn’t know how to tell Mom I was the underdog. Every. Single. Day. I was the kid who reeked of smoke, had holes in her shoes and wore mismatched clothes a size too small. I was trying to root for the underdog— myself! Why wasn’t anyone else rooting for me? Mom never saw my plight. Someone else always had it worse. Once I tried to tell Mom I needed a new Barbie because Mikey had sawed one of her legs off with a steak knife. Mom said how dare I discard poor Barbie because she only had one leg, and that people with special needs were just as important. She insisted I continue to play with hop-a-long Barbie and appreciate the fact that I had two legs, unlike Barbie who had to try and keep up with Ken hopping around in her uncomfortable stiletto. Barbie had a rough life.
Riding Standing Up Page 4